Unexpected
by lilyleia78
Summary: H/W Slash. It's House and Wilson's first Valentines. House isn't happy with Wilson's plans. "Come on; let’s get this farce over with." Updated to include Wilson's first attempt at romancing House.
1. Unexpected

The only excuse House had for not calling in sick to avoid the whole Valentine's fiasco was that he was preoccupied by the strange dream clinging to the edges of his consciousness as he woke up. He and Wilson had been playing foosball with miniature Kutners and Taubs against miniature 13s and Foremans. Cuddy was being trailed around the hospital by Cameron and Chase, who were calling her grandma and demanding she take them for ice cream. He had no idea where that came from, but idly wondered if he could convince them to do it. Or maybe Kutner and Taub, it would be worth suggesting just to see how far back in his head Foreman could roll his eyes.

So it wasn't until he was actually walking through the front doors of the hospital that he remembered what day it was, and by then it was too late to go home – he'd been spotted by Cameron and had his exit cutoff. Retreating to his office turned out to be the better part of valor if he wanted to avoid a lecture on the proper way to treat Wilson on their first holiday together. House told her that he had put on red boxers so Wilson could enjoy the festive wrapping on his present later. She looked a little ill after that, but let him escape.

He dodged hearts, cupids and Kutner with a box a Valentines before arriving in his office to begin his day. He had big plans, including hiding from Cuddy, insulting his staff, avoiding clinic, and trying to talk Wilson into blowing him in a supply closet – pretty much the same as every other day.

Eventually, boredom and hunger drove House across the balcony to Wilson's office in search of physical and mental sustenance. But of course Wilson wasn't there. Wilson was never around when he needed him, stupid work ethic. That man really needed to rethink his priorities.

For awhile, House entertained himself by arranging all the little stuffed things on Wilson's shelves into lewd positions, but eventually he was reduced to searching the desk for something new and exciting. He shuffled through the disturbingly neat drawers, shoving aside paperclips, prescription pads, an extra tie, and a stack of Valentines filled out in childish hand before pausing over a brochure to the Moonstruck Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge in Asbury Park.

It didn't look like half-forgotten junk mail. The creases were worn and corners turned down as if they had been turned and examined often. He opened the pamphlet and took in the happy looking couples and the romantic setting and felt a knot of tension form in his chest. Unwilling to quite believe what his heart was trying to tell him, House skipped the rest of the desk and went right to the box Wilson thought was securely hidden behind his medical texts. Inside was a receipt for two dozen red roses and small heart-shaped box of chocolates.

Wilson was cheating on him. He took the news better than he would have expected. It was Wilson after all; this wasn't an entirely unexpected development. Except, well, he'd really thought that all Wilson's cheating was just his subconscious looking for something else, looking for him. And he knew that wasn't just his ego talking. According to his highly confidential files, Wilson's therapist agreed. And Wilson wasn't showing any signs of infidelity – he was no more or less attentive to House, sexually or otherwise, than he'd ever been. That left another, infinitely more appalling, possibility – maybe all of this was for _him_.

One last look through the debris of his search as he methodically replaced everything revealed the key piece of evidence, a Valentine card decorated with two men holding hands on a sunset beach, leaning in for a kiss. House stared at in horror, thoughts refusing to settle, before his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and he fled the scene like a man with the devil on his heels.

Back at home, safely ensconced on his piano bench, House washed a Vicodin down with some rum he'd pilfered from the staff Christmas party. Without a thought, his fingers picked out their own melody while his brain worked on the problem of Wilson's sappy plan, and his own reaction to it. As the notes worked their magic and soothed away his concerns, House came to a decision of his own.

**

"Hi, Honey. I'm home," Wilson called jovially as he walked through the door, all wide smiles and laughing brown eyes.

House generously ignored the lame greeting and turned Wilson back toward the door. "Come on; let's get this farce over with."

Wilson shrugged out from under House's grip and turned back to face him, the look on his face one of amused confusion. His eyebrows drew dangerously together, and his cocked head asked the question before Wilson could even articulate it. "Huh?"

"I know you have some dopey romantic evening planned; let's get on with it. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can come home, and you can start making it up to me on your knees."

Wilson still wasn't moving, or at least, not toward the door. Probably because walking was difficult when one was bent over laughing. "She got you! I don't believe it. Damn, now I owe Cuddy eight more hours of clinic time; I never thought you'd fall for some planted papers in my office."

Not for nothing was House called a genius; he figured it out before Wilson had even finished speaking. "Cuddy?" House echoed dully. "She set me up, made it look like you had a big romantic plan for our first Valentines."

"And you fell for it, my friend," Wilson said smilingly. He patted House's left shoulder consolingly.

House opened his mouth to say something cuttingly sarcastic and was surprised when a cold, "That jealous bitch," came out of his mouth in a vicious hiss. Wilson looked as shocked as House felt.

"It's just a joke, House, not even a harmful one," Wilson reminded him, infuriatingly calm and concerned in the face of House's venom.

"Her sense of humor sucks," House snapped, quickly turning his head to hide whatever his eyes were showing from Wilson's increasingly curious gaze.

"Why are you taking this so hard? It was a prank. You thought it was hilarious when I sabotaged your cane, but a brochure and a couple faked receipts and you're ready to declare war? What am I missing?"

Wilson stared at him. House pretended to be uninterested, but Wilson rarely bought that act, he knew House was interested in nearly everything. Wilson had on his puzzle solving expression, the one that almost always led to some new discovery about the inner workings of one Gregory House. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Wilson's revelation face and braced himself.

"You," Wilson paused, obviously so overcome with disbelief of his newest discovery that he almost couldn't continue, "you want the hearts and flowers bullshit!" House snorted derisively, but Wilson plowed on with his theory anyway. "You just want me to initiate it so you can have the added pleasure of ridiculing me for it."

"You caught me," House pretended to concede with a dramatic sigh, "I'm really a twelve year old girl trapped in a ridiculously handsome man's body."

"Admit it; you were looking forward to Moonstruck and the flowers and Barry White singing softly in the background while we made love on a bed of rose petals." How Wilson could say shit that cheesy and still sound like a smug bastard was mystery House would probably never solve, but it was sexy as hell.

He had the uncomfortable feeling that his continued silence would be taken as assent, but a proper retort was taking its own sweet time coming. He settled for, "I want a divorce."

Wilson smirked at him, an expression he'd clearly picked up from spending too much time with Cuddy, and folded his arms over his chest before offering, "How about a rain check for next weekend? Tonight you'll have to settle for a half eaten box of chocolates, a home cooked meal, and hot sex on floral print sheets instead. Would you like a candlelit bubble bath too?"

House rolled his eyes. "Smart ass."

Wilson grinned even wider before his expression softened and his arms opened to engulf House. House's arms returned the embrace automatically. "You want romance; I'll give you romance." Wilson's voice dropped to a rough whisper, and he leaned in to murmur the words directly into House's ear. "_Ich liebe dich. Te amo. Je t'aime. Ti voglio bene. _Happy Valentine's Day, House."

"Idiot," House muttered as he allowed the other man to pull him into a kiss. And if Wilson could hear the affection in the word, that was okay. It was Valentine's after all.


	2. Romancing Dr House

**Romancing Dr. House**

Much to House's relief, Wilson didn't immediately begin plying him with poetry and roses once he'd stumbled onto House's deepest, darkest secret. In fact, the first romantic gesture was so subtle that it took him a full week to notice it and then another few days to confirm his theory and decide on a course of action. So when his favorite oncologist walked into the office at 5:30 on the dot for the tenth time in a row, House was ready for him.

"Picking me up from work, Dr. Wilson? I do believe you're trying to woo me." House said slyly before pretending to swoon back into his black leather chair. After a moment's consideration he began fanning himself with one hand for good measure.

Wilson watched the antics impassively. When House showed no sign of getting up, he came further into the room. "If you're going to be at this awhile, I'm just gonna get some work done," he informed his melodramatic friend. "You don't mind, do you?" Not waiting for a response, Wilson dropped into House's desk chair and pulled out a patient file.

"Of course I mind. You're supposed to be romancing me; working in my office isn't romantic." Wilson flipped open a file in response. House frowned and poked at the other man with his cane. "Come on; show me some of that panty peeler charm."

Wilson glanced up quizzically. "Why? Are you wearing panties?"

House felt a smile flicker across his face, but quashed it before Wilson could call him on it. "No, I'm going commando. Which you'd know if you didn't rush out of the house at 6:15 every morning." Wilson ignored the mild jibe in favor of inspecting every inch of House's body, his gaze turning heated as it slowly rose toward House's face. "See something you like?" House asked.

"Yes," Wilson answered. His voice went low and husky in a way House had only ever dreamed of hearing in the hospital. Kutner must have turned up the thermostat again, because House could feel his face heating up. Wilson smirked knowingly and turned his attention back to his files.

House stared at the top of Wilson's ridiculously poofy head in silence, uncertain if he wanted Wilson to elaborate or drop it. When the silence stretched to five minutes, he opened his mouth, thought better of it and shut it again. At the ten minute mark he considered throwing something just to get Wilson's attention back where it belonged. Finally he gave in; he never liked the quiet game anyway. "What?" he asked.

Wilson looked up with a confused frown. "What, what?"

"What do you see that you like?" House asked.

Wilson capped his pen, carefully put the file back in order and closed it. Then he put everything neatly away in his briefcase and came around the desk to perch on the edge closest to House. "Everything."

Oh, yeah, he was definitely going to have to talk to Kutner about the thermostat. The heat from his face was slowly creeping down his chest. Wilson's smile was smug, but oddly tender, as he continued softly, "But let's start with your eyes, they're really the most remarkable color."

"Yes," House said, rolling the feature in question in a move that involved his whole head, "Blue. Just like 10% of the American population."

House hadn't even realized that Wilson had leaned in until he swayed back to scowl at him. "Shut up, you're the one who said he wanted romance."

Now it was House's turn to scowl. "I never said that."

"You didn't deny it either."

"I asked for a divorce," House pointed out.

"Which implies you want to get married, an inherently romantic concept."

"Only so the threat of divorce carries more weight."

For the first time, Wilson started to look a little irritated. "Hey, you're the one fishing for compliments. The least you could do is shut up and take them."

House frowned. "I'm not," he cut himself off when Wilson stood up and turned back toward his briefcase. "Okay, fine. Please tell me how lucky you are to have me," House said with a resigned air.

Wilson grinned brightly. "Oh, I ask God daily what I've done to deserve you," he assured his friend.

"Tortured nuns in another life, no doubt," House observed.

"At the very least," Wilson agreed. "Can we postpone the mocking portion of the evening until later?"

House looked positively scandalized. "You don't know me at all, do you?"

Wilson shook his head in amusement. "Let's get back to the hearts and flowers bullshit."

"And they say romance is dead."

"Yes it is. I think you've killed the mood."

"Nonsense. My eyes are like shimmering pools of liquid sapphire. Go on."

"Shimmering pools of liquid sapphire? That doesn't even make sense," Wilson held up a hand to forestall House's retort. "Anyway, I never said that. Sapphires aren't the right color. I don't think anything is quite the color of your eyes; that was my point. They're hot and cold and brilliant and beautiful," Wilson hesitated ever so slightly before continuing, but his voice remained steady and his tone frank as he added, "just like the rest of you."

House's could feel his earlier flush returning but pretended not to notice as Wilson leaned closer to rub a thumb over his slightly chapped lips. He couldn't help smiling at the feel of it.

"And your smile," Wilson continued, "Not that 'I know everything smirk' you're so fond of, although that's pretty hot too, but your real smile. I love that expression. Not just because it's alarmingly attractive, but because only I get to put it there. It's all for me."

It would be pretty much impossible not to smile while Wilson was being possessive with such dopey sincerity, so House didn't try too hard to fight it. Wilson grinned back at him. "And there," Wilson said, sliding his index finger up House's check. "Right there, these absurdly adorable dimples, that's another reason to love your smile."

Now he really couldn't deny that the heat-induced flush he'd been fighting was quite possibly a blush, but House fully intended to try if anyone called him on it. Wilson leaned even closer and replaced the thumb tracing his lips with his mouth in a sweet kiss, the kind House usually only allowed when he was too blissed out on sex, drugs and/or rock and roll to protest.

Wilson sat back triumphantly. "And now I've gotten you all flushed and flustered. I like it; it's a good look for you."

House glared at Wilson's cat-that-got-the-canary smirk before smiling sweetly, making sure his dimples came out in full force, and fluttering his eyelashes outrageously. "You know what else would get me flushed and flustered? A blowjob in the supply closet."

Wilson leaned away, eyes wide with alarm. "Never, ever make that face again. Or I won't even blow you in our closet."

House valiantly resisted the obvious joke, and pulled himself to his feet. "Fine, we'll be boring and have sex at home. But don't think I won't be mocking you for that 'marriage is an inherently romantic concept' later on tonight."

"A mock-free night? I wouldn't dream of it."

Wilson gathered his stuff and fell into step on House's left. Neither man spoke as they made their way to the elevators, the awkward gait of House's limp brushing the backs of their hands together with every step toward home.


End file.
